Partners Don't Hug
by Trish47
Summary: But they aren't just partners. Olivia and Elliot reflect on their embrace. Short post-ep for Pursuit. Hints of EO. Enjoy and please review. COMPLETE.
1. Weight

**Hey all. It's been a while since I've posted anything for this fandom (and no, I haven't forgotten about SIGAR?), so be gentle. I feel a little rusty. **

**Also, I know that this is going to be 1/10347012931 pieces written about Pursuit, but I really appreciate you taking the time to read mine. Enjoy! :)**

**_Note: Takes place directly after the hug, as Olivia is walking away._**

**Disclaimer: I don't own SVU or it's characters. **

* * *

Partners Don't Hug

Fear is the only thing that keeps her moving down the corridor toward the exit, away from Elliot.

Her body has never ached like this before. A mix of loss, exhaustion, and need make her shoulders slump. Her feet drag when she is in most need of a quick getaway.

There's so much weight, so much pressure. Breathing isn't easy. And every time she inhales she smells him. His aftershave radiates off of her flushed skin and seeps into her nose, reminding her of the desperate way she wrapped her arms around his back and how his fingertips pressed through her coat as if to massage the hurt away.

That hug just happened, didn't it?

Without any hesitation, Elliot took her in his arms and tried to remove some of the unbearable weight hanging down all around her. And for a brief, brief moment it worked. She was able to take one deep breath—just deep enough to steady herself and tell him, "I'm fine."

But this time that verbal barrier—her go-to phrase that warns him she can't open up—cracked under his examination. He looked her in the eyes and saw the puffiness from her tears. He noticed the way her lip quivered with the bottled up sobs that she'll never let loose. He could tell that she is not fine, is nowhere near that state of mind, and called her out on lying to him. He called her out on lying to herself.

Olivia won't turn around, can't glance over her shoulder. What if he's watching her walk away? What if he's looking for some reason to follow her? What if all he needs is the okay from her—just a slight pause, a small falter in her stride—to offer the comfort of his arms again?

Her heart wouldn't be able to handle it.

You can only be so close to a person you love but will never have. There needs to be a buffer to ward off those deeper feelings that lead to trouble, that lead to questions without clear answers, that lead to regret. Elliot has never been the one to heed the invisible line between them that allows their unique relationship to work, the line that Olivia draws so that she can function and pretend that she doesn't harbor intense and sometimes overwhelming feelings for him.

She used to be so good at keeping Elliot at a distance. Partner used to be his only title. Then he became a friend. It wasn't long before she added the adjective "best" to that label. The question became: is he her partner and best friend, or her best friend and partner? For Olivia, there is a clear distinction between the two, but she remains unsure of the order. She knows that the job should come first, but after twelve years, the lines have blurred to the point of needing a magnifying glass to see the tiny chasm that separates them.

Olivia is sure of one thing. Partners don't hug.

The thought that there may be more to their embrace than comfort and reassurance propels her forward, needing to get outside a little faster.

She can't do this. Not right now. Not on top of everything else that has happened in the past few hours.

Sonya Paxton is dead. Olivia felt the ADA's life, her blood, slipping through her fingers. The whole world seems to be crumbling and trying to crush her, but Elliot came to pull her above the rubble and into his arms. Olivia can't ponder all the subtext underneath that hug, can't even begin to analyze why he said, "I should've come back sooner."

Her only plan of action is to walk away and rebuild the buffer zone; layer the sandbags inside her chest to keep her grief in and his concern out. The two emotions that normally go hand-in-hand don't mix well in her bloodstream. If she's not careful, she'll overdose on the bittersweet high that comes from knowing Elliot cares.

If she's not careful, Olivia will lose the last piece of her heart to a married man.

* * *

**A/N: I'm thinking of writing a follow up chapter about Elliot's feelings post-hug. Then we'll see where it goes from there. :)**

**Reviews are loved and appreciated!**

**ETA: Thank you TangoSVU for catching my error!  
**


	2. Cut

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed that first part and wanted to see a second part. Here it is. I hope you like it. Enjoy!**

**Extra thanks to Phoenix, my editor. :)**

**_Note: Same moment as the first chapter (as Olivia is walking away). Elliot's POV._  
**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. No suing please. It's just for fun.**

* * *

His fingers clench at the sleeves of Olivia's coat, then at the air in front of him, grasping for a memory of her to hold on to as she pulls away and leaves him standing in the church corridor. His arms hang limply now; empty, devoid of _her_. All of his senses are working at maximum capacity and he can't seem to catch his breath. The heat from her cheek lingers on his neck. The scent of her citrus perfume surrounds him, engulfs him.

Just a single embrace has caused a sudden shift in their dynamic. Elliot's mind is having trouble processing.

While pressed up against him, Olivia Benson was not just his partner, not just his best friend. She was a woman he cares for immeasurably—indefinably—hurting in a way that a hug can't begin to fix.

She's never opened up to him so completely and allowed herself to be so honest, so vulnerable—even for just a moment.

Elliot wasn't ready to let her go. Now he watches her back as she retreats, trying to make it to the door without actually breaking into a trot, without admitting to him or herself that she's really running away.

She doesn't want him to come after her, wants him to keep his distance for the time being and let her regroup. Those shoulder taps were deliberate, a silent command: "Stay here."

Not one part of him wants to listen and stay put, not when every muscle itches to catch up to her, take her in his arms again, and try to relieve some of the pressure, to lift some of the weight from her shoulders.

Elliot's torn. Does he stay or chase after her?

It's only because he knows that she needs to pull herself together in order to do her job, to close the case, that he lets her leave in peace. It's only out of respect for her that he abandons pursuit and forces his body to turn in the opposite direction.

He walks into the women's bathroom and sees the body bag on the ground. Melinda kneels and zips the plastic cover over Sonya Paxton's face, but not before Elliot catches a glimpse of the ADA. Dried blood coats her neck and a deep, curved gash streaks across her throat.

Elliot falters and has to stop to regain his focus because, for a split second, Olivia's face replaced Sonya's. It was Olivia in that body bag, bathed in her own blood and lifeless.

It could have been her so easily.

His partner could have died because he wasn't there, because he didn't have her back. He wonders just how many times that's happened, knowing that one time is already too many. He's failed her in so many ways—some that he's not even aware of because Olivia will never tell him.

"Elliot," Melinda greets, standing.

There are no other words that the medical examiner can offer. She's not the type to give condolences, and Elliot is not the type to accept them.

A lumpy mass catches his eye on the floor, bloody and forgotten. It's Olivia's scarf.

Melinda lends him a spare glove and he picks it up, grasping the blue scarf as though he's holding part of her. Even though he knows that the blood isn't hers, the image jars him and makes his head spin with the possibilities. What if it had been _him _finding _Olivia _on the bathroom floor? What if she had died in his arms, even as he tried to save her?

The thought cuts too deep.

A CSU technician holds out an evidence bag and Elliot tucks the scarf inside, tucks away the thought of Olivia dying and him trying to move on without her.

"Was it quick?" he asks Melinda, getting back to the case, to what's important.

"It wasn't instant. And it wasn't painless," she says honestly, "but it was quicker than some. And she had Olivia."

That's right. Sonya had Olivia in her final moments.

Elliot decides right then and there that he wants Olivia at his deathbed too, whether he dies on the job or at home when he's old and bedridden, expiring of natural causes. He wants her there because he can't imagine not having her in his life until the very end, until death intervenes.

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**A/N: I'm going to end it here now, but only because I'm not going to have time to write for a while and I don't want to leave anyone waiting expectantly for updates. If I'm struck by my muse and have something good, I'll post it (and if you've got suggestions, let me hear 'em!). Until then, friends. :)  
**

**I'd love to know what you thought of this chapter. Review, please?**


	3. Pressure

**Hey, all. I can't tell you how much all the lovely reviews mean to me (and I will be responding to them all, if I haven't gotten to you yet)! The muse struck, so I've decided to extend this for two more 'chapters.' Hope that's okay with you. :)**

**These two will be a little beefier than the others and focus more on actions and consequences than feelings. . .I think. Lol. Enjoy!**

**_Note:_****_ Olivia's POV. Takes place at the conclusion of the 'Pursuit' (Fri. Feb. 11th/Sat. Feb. 12th)._**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine. M'kay?  
**

* * *

In one afternoon, Olivia has acquired forty-four victims, more victims than she sees in a typical year.

She's spent the past two and a half hours listening to a sociopath rehash every detail of every rape, every murder he's ever committed, spent it giving Alicia Harding moral support during the toughest interview of her life.

After it's over—after she makes sure Alicia is in a cruiser on her way home, after a copy of the recording with the location of every victim's body is circulating around the precinct, after uniforms are dispatched to canvas the various dumping sites—Olivia finally heads home. Her skin is grimy with the sound of the perp's voice. She needs to wash it away.

* * *

The pressurized showerhead drills into her back, but doesn't relieve any tension. She scrubs and scrubs, making her skin raw, but the names of Grafton's victims have been absorbed into her body.

The hot water stings, turns her skin red and splotchy like Sonya's blood covered her hands only days ago. She looks down and sees crimson, but it's not just Sonya's blood—it's her mother's, it's Melinda's, it's her own. It's Elliot's. Her hands are permanently stained with blood and no amount of washing will make them come clean.

Olivia makes the shower even hotter, until she's choking on steam, until she can't stand beneath the water without scalding herself.

She wraps her arms around her chest and squeezes tightly, thinking of Elliot and that church corridor. She holds onto the moment as though just the memory of him is enough to hold her together.

* * *

The names with unknown faces linger after her shower, don't let her sleep. They flow in and out of her consciousness.

By three in the morning, Olivia is at her desk in the bullpen, searching for faces to match the names. She searches for parents and loved ones to contact and give condolences, give closure. Olivia seeks her own sense of closure by identifying the victims, by slowly bringing the case to a complete close.

She doesn't find it.

There is no closure for her. There is only more. More victims, more cases, more suspects. Whatever she does will never be enough. Still, she strives to make a bigger difference, a bigger impact. It is her purpose.

She stares at the pictures pulled from Missing Persons and other databases, allowing herself a brief moment to mourn each victim, each lost life.

Adam Grafton called them throwaways—girls that no one cared about, young women that no one would miss. Olivia will not let that be true. If only through her, these victims will live on. She picks out one trait of each girl—a sweet smile, a dimple, a freckle on the nose—and whispers their names, building her own internal database of victims.

It's a tiring process, but Olivia pumps her body full of caffeinated toxins and pushes forward.

* * *

She's only on the twelfth victim when Cragen arrives.

He pauses at her desk and she hopes that he won't send her home. She can't be alone right now. If she has even fifteen minutes to herself—to think of everything that has happened in the past sixty-odd hours—she might not make it. The pressure would become unbearable.

But her Captain doesn't say anything.

Instead, his hand slides gently across the top of her back, then drops away. He disappears into his office without speaking, though he doesn't have to say anything; Olivia already knows what's going through his head. She's been thinking the same thing since they made the arrest, since yesterday's confession.

They didn't win this one. Even though they have their man, and even though Adam Grafton will rot for life, no one will call this case a victory.

* * *

Her next interruption comes when her partner sets a cup of coffee in front of her. The gesture comes out of nowhere—she can't remember the last time he picked up coffee on the way in for her.

When she looks at him, Elliot's arms are braced against his desk as he leans his weight forward, eyes trained on her. Olivia holds his gaze, begging him not to ask the question that's on the tip of his tongue, the question for which she has no sufficient answer. If she lies now and says she's fine, he'll know it's not the truth.

"Did you go home at all?" he asks.

She thinks she can handle this question. "I came in early."

"How early?"

"Early enough that this is my third cup."

Elliot frowns in disapproval. He wipes a hand over his face, decides to let it go and asks, "Where are you at?"

She's glad to get back to business, because it's all she has. "Cindy Hooper. Number fourteen."

He comes around to her desk and grabs the list of names, the list of identities lost until now. He looks it over, standing so close that she can feel the heat emanating off of him, through his clothes and hers, warming her skin. She remembers how the skin of his cheek felt against her own and how the warmth of his embrace almost consumed her.

Olivia's focus snaps back violently when Elliot rips the paper in half, then rips one section in half again.

"What are you doing!"

"Dividing the workload." He walks across the room and drops the larger list on Fin and John's joined desks. "They get those twenty-two."

"And what about our half?" she asks, pointing at the short list of eleven names in his fingers.

"Thanks to you, I only have nine more files to go."

"Elliot," she grinds out, not at all in the mood. She needs that list, she needs those names and the promise of work that comes with them.

He comes back to her desk, sits on the corner near her chair, crowds her space.

Right now she hates him. She hates that Elliot's trying to give her a break because he thinks she needs it—because she _does_ need it—when all she wants is to immerse herself in the job, in helping others but not herself. She hates that he can tell she's cracking under the pressure of all of it, that he's trying to take the pressure away.

Because sometimes, if pressure is lost too quickly, bad things happen. People cramp up, planes crash, and tornadoes appear because there isn't enough pressure to keep everything stable.

Olivia needs it to survive.

She opens her mouth, but he speaks first, before she can make any other protests.

"Go home, Liv." It's a whisper, but the force is there. "You've done enough. I've got your back this time."

His eyes are the same as they were when Sonya died—piercing and too observant. They are the same eyes that looked her over in that corridor and recognized the truth—that she was not fine. They can see that she still isn't. His eyes are so sincere, so expressive, so _loud_, that she can't bear to read them and see what he's really saying.

_I'm doing this because I care about you_._ Not as a partner, not as a friend, but as something else, something more._

He stares her into agreement.

Olivia stands. Her back is sore from sitting for so long. Her eyes are dry and irritated from staring at the computer screen for six hours. The exhaustion she should have felt hours ago finally seeps in, but it's not just physical.

She's tired of it all. She's tired of fighting a losing battle against rapists and murderers. She's tired of questions, tried of answers that are never the whole truth and nothing but. She's tired of not knowing how she feels—of knowing _exactly_ how she feels—about Elliot.

She's so damn tired.

Olivia puts on her coat, trying to ignore the expression on Elliot's face. He seems pleased that she's taking his suggestion that is really a command.

Even if leaving means admitting that she needs a break, she can't let him win this one, can't let him think he's affected her.

Olivia meets his eyes one last time. "I'll be back after I grab something to eat."

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**A/N: I'd love to hear your thoughts. Though I adore positive encouragement, I'm open to constructive comments too. Just be nice about it. :)  
**


	4. Tug

**_Just finishing things up. It's crazy to think how many seasons have passed since Sonya died/the hug happened. If you're reading this, thanks and I hope you enjoy._**

**_Note: Final chapter. From Elliot's point of view._**

* * *

Elliot rubs his fingers over the ridged imprint on his wrist, noticing how his tan line has faded to the point that the color of his skin is almost even again, then slides his watch back into place.

Blinking slowly, he opens his eyes and stares at the circular face again, making sure that he's reading it correctly. An uncomfortable anxiety bubbles in his gut and creeps up the column of his esophagus as he calculates the time.

Olivia should be back by now.

She's already surprised him once today by stepping away from the Adam Grafton case, by permitting him and the guys to finish the follow-up on her list of names without putting up her typical fight. That's only happened a handful of times. If there was ever a sign that she's been worn thin by a case, it's her almost-too-easy agreement to take a break. As far as Elliot's concerned, she deserves every moment of respite she can get after the last 72 hellish hours. Olivia has done her part. She's already finished her fair share of the list. Part of his too.

The fact that she's gone past her hour shouldn't concern him. He should stop checking his watch and glancing over at the bullpen's entrance every fifteen seconds. _Just let it go._

But running over on a lunch break - which he had to coax her into taking in the first place - raises more than a few flags in his mind. His gut instinct is to worry. If she's absent much longer, without any communication as to why, his brain will start tossing the word "panic" around.

Elliot doesn't want to overreact. There are plenty of rational, reasonable explanations for why she hasn't returned: traffic; lines at the café; unexpectedly meeting an old friend; getting caught up in a news article or book; forgetting the time. All perfectly logical reasons. Perfect for anyone other than Olivia Benson.

His partner would overcome such distractions or interruptions easily. She wouldn't be late. Or, in the off chance that something would keep her away, she'd notify him. What he'd really like to believe is that she actually took his advice for once, that she is currently at her apartment, sleeping off the dark circles under her eyes after shoveling last night's leftovers into her stomach.

Yes, but that would be _his_ best case scenario. It's an unrealistic wish.

Elliot suspects she's around here somewhere. Of course, that makes her failure to reappear even more troubling.

He checks the time again: twenty minutes over. In ten more he's going to move into true detective mode. Because it _is_ a big deal. He told her he had her back this time, and he didn't just mean the paperwork. After recent events, he wants to keep her close. He'll call it part of his job, looking out for his partner, but it's more than that. He wants to protect her from the fallout of this case, from the demons that plague her, from herself.

Having her in his arms in that hallway, feeling her vulnerabilty seep through the fragile point of her self-constructed defenses, made him realize that when she's not protecting herself, she has no one to back her up. Elliot has always had someone: his wife, his priest, his partner. He's taken shelter from many storms under her umbrella, but now he sees that he's left her to get caught in the rain on one too many occasions. He's determined to have that change, to offer nothing less than his full support.

He finishes his final call to a victim's next of kin, then types a brief report on the exchange. It's the last of three such reports. Of the nine names remaining on his list, only three girls had anyone left to mourn their loss. It is a tragedy he's all too familiar with. Saving the document to a file, he glances over to John and Finn's desks in an effort to stop worrying about Olivia's tardieness.

Finn catches his eye. "Any luck?"

"Not much."

John pauses in his work to offer the grim reality they face: "Grafton selected the girls carefully. He made sure no one would miss them."

Elliot nods, both in understanding and agreement. With nothing else to say on the topic, he turns his wrist until he can see the minute hand on the VI.

He pushes away from his desk as nonchalantly as possible, grabs his coat and keys to the Cadillac, and excuses himself for lunch.

Instead of leaving, Elliot investigates. He casually scans the halls of the precinct, the bedrolls in the crib, but there is no sign of his partner. Now the panic runs from his brain down his spinal cord and across his chest.

Perhaps she really did go home. At this point, he should try texting, or better yet, phoning, her. But Elliot knows he will need visual evidence that she is all right - in every sense - before he will be able to calm down.

Decision made, he heads for the parking garage.

* * *

It never occurred to him that she might be here, in the bowels of the parking garage, sitting on top of her jacket with her back pressed against the Cadillac. Her knees are bent and close to her chest, her hands rest near her ankles, clasping her phone. Everything about her seems weighed down. This is the first time he's truly seeing that, the heaviness.

"I forgot the keys," she says with a grim, self-depricating smile.

He doesn't say anything in response. There is nothing to say. Without hesitating, he approaches the Cadillac, makes a one-eighty, and lowers himself beside her, his back to the front left tire. Down here, the smells of the garage are compounded; rubber, gasoline, and the dank odor of wet concrete mingle in his nose.

Any question he can come up with would close her down, shut him out; he's learned to not prod for answers over the years. Though he has yet to master patience, he allows her to start the conversation.

"The files?" she inquires, because it is always a victims-first mentality with her. She will never put herself first - a trait he finds both maddening and admirable.

"Done, thanks to you. Not many had next of kin."

"Just what he wanted: 'throwaways.'"

The disgust in her voice is directed mostly at Grafton, but Elliot knows she reserves a small percentage for herself. If she wasn't so tired already, maybe he'd call her on it. He's done so in the past, but, right now, he can't find it in him to argue with her. He's already called her a liar once this week. There's no telling if their relationship could handle more honesty.

More than any other person in her life, Elliot knows what a list of forty-four victims does to her mental state. She's cracking under the weight of her guilt. She'll always think that she should have caught the criminal sooner, that, if she had done her job correctly, they would have found Grafton after his first murder. Perhaps, if she had solved the case a little more quickly, Sonya Paxton would still be alive. Olivia puts the blame on herself.

It's time that he took some of that away. It's time to reassure her, tell her that it is not her fault.

Elliot exhales and, with his chin against his chest, mumbles, "I'm sorry I went to Quantico. That I wasn't there."

The territory he's venturing into is dangerous and uncharted. And, yet, he can't keep the apology pent up, unspoken. He should have been with his partner, with Sonya.

"I'm glad you weren't there," she states resolutely.

She keeps tugging at the rope, pulling the blame to her side of the line, but he won't let go either. "Things could've gone differently," he explains.

"Yeah," she agrees, letting the line slack just enough to throw him off balance before yanking back with,"It could have been you."

"It could have been you too, Olivia," he counters with equal weight.

A puff of exasperation, of exertion, escapes her. "Well, it wasn't."

It's a desperate attempt to dig her heels into the mud and keep the flag in the middle of the pit. The middle is about as close to winning as he will get with such a stubborn opponent, so Elliot takes it as a victory.

The truth they both want to ignore is that either of them could have ended up in Sonya's position under slightly different circumstances. This time, they escaped another close call, and the troubled ADA took the fall. But next time - and there is always a "next time" lurking around the corner in their profession -it could be that one of them will not be so lucky.

Her breathing has changed. She inhales deeply through her nose, and exhales in a soft puff, as though trying to keep control of herself. Maybe she's upset because their minds have traveled down the same path, to that grim destination where one of them has a gash across their throat, and their body lay lifeless on a cold tile floor. Elliot doesn't need to imagine that feeling, because he's already lived it once. Back when they first started working cases together, he'd watched a perp slash at her neck, and he'd run to her side. He chose her.

At the time, he swore he wouldn't do it again - put her before a victim - but he'd said the words in anger, in haste. He told her that he shouldn't have to watch her back, and she'd responded by saying she never asked that of him.

That's just it. . .Olivia has never asked him to look out for her, as a partner or otherwise. And she never will. It has taken him close to twelve years to finally realize that she should never have had to, that she shouldn't have to now. Having her back is his job, his duty.

"You okay?" he asks. It's the question that started all of this. It's only right that he brings it full circle.

This time she doesn't lie, doesn't feed him the standard _I'm fine_ and try to walk away. "She reminded me so much of my mother."

There it is, the truth he's wanted her to acknowledge all along. "I know."

Without glancing over, Elliot reaches for her hand, seeking to offer some amount of comfort through touch. But her hand is not where he expects it to be, and he ends up grasping nothing but air and a good intention. Instead of withdrawing immediately, he turns his hand palm up, offering an invitation instead, and waits.

He can feel the smile on her face in the touch of her hand. It's tentative at first, unsure, but then firm, like the squeeze she gives his fingers.

"Hungry?" he asks.


End file.
